


Hero

by TheRavenintheMoon



Series: Long Lost Souls [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Heroism, Mage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRavenintheMoon/pseuds/TheRavenintheMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two mages meet in Ironforge...and a friendship is, er, forged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I probably own nothing, except maybe my characters. I know that Blizzard, however, owns a small chunk of my soul...
> 
> Also, all of my World of Warcraft stories will be posted as part of a series, though not all of my characters will appear in each story. Time is a bit—wibbly-wobbly. Discrepancies in the timeline are, uh, insignificant.

**_Hero_ **

**_Hravn and Dindrane_ **

The heat of the Great Forge washed over Hravn as she left the throne room. She was still running on the adrenaline of battle, her senses hyper-aware of the tang of metal, the sound of laughter, the ring of hammers…the city unaware of the Dark Iron troops that were being driven from the airfield at this moment. Catching the traitor—his easy confession and even easier acceptance of his failure—seemed so very anti-climactic. Feeling lost, Hravn wandered past the glowing anvil, thinking vaguely of finding the inn. It would be nice, after all the time she’d spent running the length and breadth of Dun Morogh, to sleep in a real bed.

Hravn had not spent much time in the great city of the dwarves, at least not that she could remember. The disaster in Gnomeregan had taken its toll on her memory. In a way, she was grateful. With so much gone or changed in the world, she could truly look at it with new eyes. For the first time, she had the time to observe the city. Glancing around, she blinked. In the bustle of the central hub of Ironforge, one figure was notable in its stillness.

A human was sprawled inelegantly in one of the nearby empty grain wagons, apparently fast asleep. Her legs, wrapped in her robes as if warding off a non-existent chill, hung out the open end of the wagon, and her head, wizard’s hat sunk low over her eyes, was pillowed on a sack of grain. Hravn cautiously approached the wagon, wondering why the guards had not dislodged the woman. Head tilted in curiosity, Hravn took the opportunity to inspect the first human she had ever seen at close range.

Under scrutiny, the human seemed a rather unimpressive vagabond. Her robes were travel-stained, mud of a strange purple color splattered up to her knees. The same mud was thickly crusted on her boots. Her cloak was too big, and her gloves were a violent shade of green that clashed with the rest of her outfit. Hravn, smoothing her own recently gifted robes, assumed that both had once belonged to someone else. Short black hair peeked out from beneath a ridiculously clichéd witch’s hat. This hat had seen better days; it had faded to grey and the brim was patched—and from beneath that brim two sapphire blue eyes were inspecting Hravn in return.

It was then that Hravn, self-conscious about her mouse-brown ponytail and hand-me-down armor, noticed the staff leaning non-chalantly against the wall behind the wagon, within easy reach of the human. Her own gnarled staff was nothing compared to this rather impressive one—white, with blue accents, topped with the circled cross mandala of the Light, and rimed with that strange purple mud—that must belong to the mage sprawled in the wagon. Only a mage could be gifted such a staff and also have such dodgy taste in clothing. Hravn, a fledgling mage herself, felt utterly insignificant under the human’s gaze. She began to back away, surprised when her legs shook. She had stopped moving, and the adrenaline had leeched away while she was staring at the strange mage.

“Sit down before you fall,” a surprisingly soft voice said, tinged with the accent of Stormwind to the south.

Hravn nodded, climbing quickly onto a nearby crate so she would be at eye level with the human sitting in the wagon.

“That’s better,” the mage continued, offering Hravn a thin smile. “You know you don’t have to run yourself off your feet. Even messages for the master of your apprenticeship can wait.”

Hravn puffed up in indignation. “I’m no apprentice!” she exclaimed as the weight of all that had happened in the past few weeks crashed over her. Couldn’t this mage see that she had been fighting? She felt a swell of pride in her work. “I just saved Ironforge.”

The mage lifted a bored eyebrow. “The Dark Irons have launched their annual assault, then?”

Hravn deflated just as quickly, the pride returning to insignificance. Seeing her downcast expression, the mage laughed softly. “I meant no offense. We wouldn’t want them to ever actually succeed, and someone has to stop them.”

Hravn didn’t know how to respond, confusion following in the wake of her whirling emotions.

“So you’re an adventurer, then?” the mage asked. “Just starting out?” Keen eyes caught Hravn where she sat, making the question seem genuine, in need of a response.

Hravn nodded, the heavy weight that had just crushed her lifting somewhat. Without quite knowing why, she found herself telling the strange mage everything that had happened since she’d been rescued from Gnomeregan. The mage listened surprisingly patiently, frowning occasionally, but not interrupting. When Hravn finished, the stranger sighed.

“Twilight’s Hammer? Troggs driving the trolls from their caves? Maybe this isn’t as simple as I’d thought.” Her brow furrowed, mind clearly elsewhere.

Cautiously, Hravn asked, “Do you know what that means, then? Twilight’s Hammer?”

The mage blinked, coming back to the present. “It’s a…clan, grown to a cult. They worship the old gods and seek the destruction of all life.”

Hravn stared. “The what?”

The mage shrugged. “It’s all the explanation I could get from a night elf I once helped out. No one else seems to want to talk about it.”

Hravn’s slanted brown eyes opened even wider. She’d never seen a night elf. Hell, she’d never even left Dun Morogh! She glanced at the purple stains on the mage’s robes. “Is—” she hesitated. “Is that where that mud came from? Kalimdor?”

The mage laughed, though not unkindly. “It came from much farther away than that,” she said. “This mud,” she picked at a spot of it, “is from Netherstorm.” Seeing the confusion on the gnome’s face, she added, “In Outland.”

Hravn’s jaw dropped. “Are you one of the lost who came back now that the portal has been opened again?”

“No, no,” the mage shook her head, still obviously amused. “I went through the portal several months ago to aid those who went to investigate its reopening.” Seeing Hravn’s disappointment, she said, “I have met some of the heroes who went through originally, though.” The mage’s eyes went distant for a moment.

Hravn looked at the stone floor, unwilling to point out that only tested heroes were brave enough to step through the portal. Shyly, she asked, “Is your tabard from Outland too? I’ve never seen the device.” Indeed, the colors and symbols did not belong to any of the Alliance forces, and Hravn was barely familiar with those six.

The mage smiled, her first genuine smile. “I was able to help the Kurenai with their ogre problem. They honored me as a friend to their people.”

“What are Kurenai?” Hravn asked, though she regretted it. She was almost instantly lost in the explanation; her vague memories of a few shaman visitors did not help her picture a draenei, so she could not imagine what a broken one would look like. She wondered how people could break, and why no one had fixed them…

Sensing Hravn’s confusion, the mage cut off her explanation and laughed lightly again. “One day, you may yet become a great adventurer yourself and see far off worlds and aid our fight against the Legion.”

Hravn scoffed. “Demons on another world. I want to go to Northrend. I want to fight the undead and save _this_ world.”

The strange mage’s eyes hardened, her lips pursing in disapproval. “If Outland falls, Azeroth will be next.”

Hravn ignored this. “You’re here, you must have orders to Northrend—”

“I’m returning to Outland—”

“Against orders?”

“I’m a free agent, I can fight for the causes I choose—”

“And die in a hopeless battle against unbeatable odds—”

“As will those who go to Northrend!” The mage looked away. “At least when I die it will be an honest death. No power will call me back to hold me captive in the body that once was mine and turn my weapon against those I have sworn to protect.”

Hravn had no answer to that. Finally she said quietly, “And all I wanted was to be a tailor and make the world a little more beautiful. Instead, there’s this choice between two ugly, never-ending wars.”

The human mage nodded. Then she tilted her head curiously, all disapproval vanishing from her expression. “Just like two mages, to talk politics and argue philosophies before introducing ourselves. I’m Dindrane.”

Hravn gaped. The trainers gossiped as much as anyone, and they talked about the heroes who came for tutelage. Dindrane, she’d heard, had stopped armies and met kings and was racking up an impressive reputation for slaughtering demons across the various regions of Outland. She was the hero Hravn had supposed her to be…

“Hravn,” the gnome managed to squeak.

Dindrane smiled and stood. “I’ll remember,” she said. “I expect I’ll be hearing about you in the near future. If you need anything, mail addressed to Shattrath or Darnassus should find me.” She caught up her staff and turned to go.

Hravn, surprised by the offer of aid from the supposedly rather reclusive mage, suddenly realized something strange in what Dindrane had said. “Darnassus?” she asked the human. “Why not Stormwind?”

Dindrane half-turned back, offering a lop-sided smile. “I enjoy the peacefulness of the elven city, and, luckily, have been granted their hospitality. Stormwind is far too crowded for my liking. If you’ll excuse me,” she gestured to a blonde human hunter by the gryphon roost, impatiently tapping her foot, hand on the head of a ferocious-looking hyena, “my friend has finally arrived.” Seeing Hravn’s surprise, she added, with that same light laugh, “You didn’t think I was dozing in that wagon because I had no where else to go, did you?”

And the mage was gone in a flurry of white and gold, off to places Hravn had probably never even heard of.

Months later, Hravn, a little stiff from her first teleport, stood with wide eyes in the Temple of the Moon, drinking in the calm the place radiated. A voice, quiet, human, suddenly murmured in her ear, “Want to see the rest of the city?”

Hravn jumped, whirled, and looked up into smirking sapphire eyes. “I can’t. I’m on my way to, erm,” she checked the missive again, “Lor’danel…urgent message…”

Dindrane’s smirk widened into a proper grin. “What a coincidence. I’ve got a message for the priestess as well. Mind if I tag along?”

Somehow, Hravn felt that _she_ would be the one tagging along, trailing in Dindrane’s shimmering wake. Glancing up at the more powerful mage, who was mounting on some bizarre, vaguely antelope-like creature, Hravn thought that, at the very least, she might learn something. Remembering the smirk, the fact that the mage seemed to have been waiting for her, Hravn thought she might even enjoy this adventure. Leaping onto her creaking mechanostrider, she ran after Dindrane. She couldn’t wait to ask what sort of creature had that many horns, hooves the size of small plates, and a silver coat, and where in the worlds it came from. Maybe Dindrane could take her there.

Hravn shook her head. Start small, she thought, and followed the hero across the sea to Lor’danel.


End file.
